Page 73 of American King (New Camelot Trilogy 3)
His hand slams hard at the wall next to my head; I can’t help but flinch. “Give me a fucking safe word, Embry,” he growls. “Right the fuck now.”
“We’ve never needed one before.”
“I,” he says, finally taking that last step forward, and oh fuck, he’s hard, and his whole body is hot and so deliciously firm, and then his nose runs along my jaw and his lips are at my ear, “have never needed a safe word with you before.”
“And why is that?”
I feel him inhale, smelling my skin; his cock swells even harder against my hip. My own cock is a fucking lost cause, hard enough to pop like a fucking jack-in-the-box, leaking all over the inside of my pants.
“Because I’ve never needed you to be able to stop me before.”
I choke on the air I’m breathing. It’s terror and lust and possession. And a tiny voice that tells me not to give him a safe word because if I don’t give it to him, then I know he won’t touch me. Even in his wrath, he is too loving (once again like his Catholic god,) and if I tell him no, he will listen, and even if I don’t say no, if I say nothing, he will take a step back, he will drawn in a breath, he will fist his hands at his hair and tell me in a choked voice to leave. If I don’t give him a safe word, I could crawl in front of him naked, I could present any hole, my weeping cock, and he’d be stone.
And I hate him for being so safe. For being so good. I hate that he will still take care of me in the same moment that he wants to rip me limb from limb. I want him to destroy me, even if it’s just one more thing to hate him for.
“You give me one,” I say. “Give me a safe word and it’s mine.”
His eyes flare. “You’re supposed to choose.”
It’s my last petulant stand. “No.”
“No? Unoriginal, I suppose, but workable.”
“You know that’s not what I—”
But it’s too late, his hand is fisted at the neck of my shirt and I’m being shoved down to my knees, and I expect his other hand to fall to his zipper, I expect my mouth to get fucked, I expect anything other than the door opening with an electronic whirr and click and Greer walking in, looking nothing like the autumn princess of last night and every bit a queen. Black cigarette pants hug her hips and ass, and she’s wearing a matching black shirt with suit-like lapels and a neckline so low that I can see the inner slopes of her breasts. Sandaled heels showcase her delicate Barbie-like feet, her blond hair waves silkily over one shoulder, lipstick the color of sin stains her lips.
For a ridiculous minute, Ash and I are frozen, just staring at her. Ridiculous not because she shouldn’t be stared at, but because I’m on my knees, because Ash’s hand is at my neck, because both of us are flushed and di
lated with angry hunger. She sets her black clutch purse on a nearby table and steps towards us, her face keen with carnal delight.
“What are my boys doing without me?” she asks.
I can’t speak. Adrenaline and God knows what other hormones are surging through me, along with all the shame and rage from earlier. Ash speaks for us.
“I won,” he explains simply. “So I get to do what I want with him.”
“Oh,” she says, the apples of her cheeks going rosy with interest. “Are you going to fuck him?”
“He doesn’t deserve to be fucked.”
“You could fuck his mouth.”
“He doesn’t deserve that either.”
I try to clear my throat—not in an I’m right here noise—but in actual nerves, in actual discomfort, because I’m scared and angry and horny and I actually don’t know which feeling is which any longer. They’ve all blended together, mashed and pulped into the same thing.
It’s as if the noise reminds Ash that I’m still here, still kneeling at his feet with his hand gripping the back of my neck. He looks down at me.
“I think I know,” he says softly. “I know exactly what to do with you.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I say.
“That, my little prince, has never, ever been the plan.” And then he’s dragging me towards the bed like a dog, too low for me to stand, too fast for me to crawl, and I know I’ll have bruises on my knees, I can hear rips in the fabric of my suit, and for minute, I think about just standing up and saying it.
No.
No, I’m not playing this game with you tonight. No, I’m not your pet, your boy, your plaything. I’m not your lover. I’m not your prince. I’m your enemy and you said you loved me tonight and then you drowned me in your power, you held me under until I was clawing at my own throat and the blood vessels exploded in my eyes and all I could taste was you.
